When BAMFing Goes Wrong
by zebrowskisXchewchew
Summary: Just an ordinary day in the office...


To be vague, this is my verson of what happens when BAMF-ing goes horribly wrong, as the title suggests. This is just a little one-shot I wrote nearly a year ago. I found it last weekend, decided I would fix it up, and here's the result. This was written originally because my sister wanted a funny Lord of the Rings fanfic (no idea why) and I don't intend to add anymore or edit this again in any way, but I thought it might be a nice start to get me more into writing. (And yes, I know its not exactly _funny_, but it was when I wrote it, and my sister enjoyed it).

I own no one in this story at ALL, except Bransby and my bulky male nurses.

**No, this is not how I think Aragorn would react, only poking fun a bit.**

**I Christen You, Scruffy!**

Dr. Bransby sighed hopelessly, staring down at the chart he held in frustration. It had been a long day for all involved, and the uncooperativeness of this particular patient had been slowly wearing on his nerves since his arrival in the early morning.

"Alright," Bransby's voice dripped with held back anger and weariness as he made another unpromising effort. "Let's start _one_ more time. Your name, please?" He cast an expectant look at the man seated in front of him. The chair he occupied was a little to small for him, as he was surely over six feet tall, and he looked very uncomfortable surrounded by the medical posters that were suspended from the walls. He had, over the last two hours, been gradually inching to his right, away from a depiction of the digestive system.

The patient, now barely seated on the edge of his chair, gave an exaggerated sigh of exasperation. "Aragorn, son of Arath-"

"Never mind!" Bransby's harsh croak of a voice cut him off before he could finish. An offended glare was shot his way by his disgruntled patient, but he merely ignored it. Over the last hour or so he'd been getting a lot of those.

"Your age, please?" Bransby tried again.

"90."

Neither spoke for a moment, the only sound being the furious scratching as Bransby scribbled hastily on his chart.

"Any relatives?" He immediately regretted asking this, as the dirty haired patient promptly dove into a rather complicated list of names, all of which sounded very difficult to pronounce, and none of which Bransby could remember one they had been spoken.

"Your related to _all_ these people?" he asked doubtfully, again stopping his patient in mid sentence. Scruffy, as Bransby had christened him now, threw another offended look towards the doctor, who remained unaffected.

"Yes, they are all my kin," Scruffy responded in a miffed voice. "They are the remnants of a great people-"

"Yeah, so you've said," Bransby waved his hand dismissingly. "Okay. What is your occupation, your job?" A strange, rather proud look crossed Scruffy's face at this query.

"I am King of the reunited realms of Gondor and Arnor," With these words Scruffy drew himself up proudly (despite his tiny chair), crossing his arms and looking all together very kingly. Bransby, used to hearing such claims in his line of work, simply raised an eyebrow, but moved on nonetheless.

"Alright…" Glancing down at the chart, Bransby felt relief wash over him. Surely he couldn't mess up _this_ question!

"Your race?" His pen was poised hopefully over the paper, which was other wise filled with the useless information his patient had provided himself with so far. Scruffy, who had been sulking at the lack of effect his last proclamation had had, now cast the frazzled doctor a superior look as though the tables had suddenly turned.

"I am of the race of Men," Scruffy cast Bransby a condescending (and slightly suspicious) look before inquiring, "Is it not obvious?"

"You misunderstand," All formalities and politeness gone, Bransby opened his mouth, scathingly witty comment ready, but then he stopped short and shook his head. "I give up!"

He tossed the chart aside where it landed with a clatter on the floor. Turning his chair to face the patient directly, Bransby put on his most serious face.

"I know we've been over this before," he began, sensing already that this was a lost cause. "But I want to go back over your… arrival."

"I have told you," Scruffy responded, slightly upset that he had yet to convince this strange healer that his tale was true. "I was confronted by the giant red beast-"

"You mean the Toyota you landed on,"

"If that is what you call the creature: Scruffy sniffed impatiently. "And I did not _land_ on it, I was assailed by it. The beast began… wailing and it's eyes flashed inhumanly. I drew my sword to defend myself-" He huffed again as the doctor interrupted.

"Your sword? Where did you get this sword?" The thought of this man romping about the streets with a sword alarmed Bransby immediately (though he could not help but smirk at the thought of his patient _romping_ anywhere, sword or not).

"It is a heirloom, the broken blade of Narsil remade," Here he directed a patronizing look the Bransby. "The very blade used by Isildur to cut the Ring from Sauron's hand." His arms crossed over his chest, eyebrows raised in what could only be described as a look of victory, Scruffy looked as though he had just conquered the world with that one sentence. But, to his disappointment, this statement did not seem to impress the healer, but instead he began scribbling furiously on the chart he had previously thrown in aggravation.

"What happened next?"

"Well," Scruffy began, seeming to mistake the doctor's request for interest. "I was prepared to pit myself against this new foe…" Here he paused. "…but I was hindered by an individual. I could not understand much of what he said to me, but I gather that the beast belonged to him. He was able to stop the beast's wailing, but he seemed very upset that I has tried to defend myself against it." Bransby hesitated to comment, but when Scruffy showed no signs of continuing, he encouraged him to go on. With an annoyingly smug look, Scruffy continued.

"Not soon after, another of the horrible creatures made to attack, and of course, I slew the beast," He paused again, adopting a confused expression. "Smoke poured from it's mouth, alike to a dragon. I would've assumed it to be such a foul thing, but-" Here Bransby began tuning him out, though the patient continued on, talking of dragons and things along those lines.

The doctor, who had been scribbling again, looked up.

"Well, I believe I have finally come to a conclusion. Scruffy's attention returned to him at this and his mutterings ceased. "Your going to be sent to one of our more permanent wards."

"But I require no healing," Scruffy retorted. Bransby smiled, sighing to himself. Yes, he was a doctor, and it was his job to determine whether or not someone had any mental illnesses. But just once, he wished desperately, he'd like someone sane to walk through the doors. He _always_ ended up with the crazy ones…

"You see… um," he stumbled over the name the patient had given.

"Aragorn."

"Yes, Ara-whatever, I feel you have some problems to overcome. So I'm going to send you…" He broke off, an idea suddenly springing into his mind. He knew his decision to send Scruffy to the nuthouse would not go over to well the latter, and decided to inform the newly declared nutcase by playing into his delusions.

"Your going to a special place," he lied, voice monotone in his weariness. Scruffy, ever the skeptic, raised and eyebrow.

"Special?" The word was spoken warily, with plenty of doubt thrown in.

"Yes, only the most important people are allowed to stay there. You'll be very well looked after there. Scruffy raised a hand to his mouth, looking as though he were in deep thought. With another vaguely offended look, he crossed his arms resolutely.

"I wish to return to my own realm." Scruffy stated bluntly.

"You will!" Bransby lied again. "But in the meantime, I've arranged for you to stay in the special place." Scruffy wavered, unsure, but had little choice one two large men in white entered the tiny examination room.


End file.
